


Fidei Defensor

by psylocke



Category: Avengers (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Victorian, Victorian Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psylocke/pseuds/psylocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the turn of the 20th century, the sudden passing of Her Majesty Queen Victoria sparks an outcry of support and rebellion towards the British monarchy. In hopes to preserve the throne as a unifying sign of Britain and the Commonwealth, a group of misfits assembles themselves as the last line of protection against the republican uprising -- they call themselves the Avengers, looking to right the wrongs of the past, as the defenders of the people's faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

♕

**21 st JANUARY, 1901 **  
 _OSBORNE HOUSE, ISLE OF WIGHT, UNITED KINGDOM_

♕

The physician arrived at half past eleven that morning, a grey trench coat cinched tightly around his waist, face protected from the cold only by the plain black scarf twisted and tied around his neck. Though his outfit was well put together — clean, certainly befitting his rank as court doctor — his travelling bags had seen better days. 

As he stepped into the warmth of the Osborne House, he let out a hacking cough. Turning his head away, the doctor covered his mouth with the nook of his arm as he cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he muttered, noticing the side-eye the attendant had given him. His fingers gripped more tightly around the leather strap of his bag, quickly falling into step behind the staff. “How is she doing?” he asked, piercing the silence.

“My apologies, sir,” the man said, voice sounding rehearsed and tired. “But I am just the doorman, I have no access to her Majesty’s royal quarters.” On those words, he stopped abruptly, stepping to the side. His hands flushed out, through the open doorway before them, bowing his head as politely as he could muster. “Lord Braddock is just beyond here — he will answer any questions you may have.”

The doctor mumbled a thank-you to the servant, stepping through the threshold of the room. The corridor opened into an expansive, cavernous foyer, with ceilings two times the height of the man. White walls were adorned with paintings and portraiture, not just of the royal family, but of landscapes from all corners of the realm. A small gaggle of ladies stood in the corner, gossiping amongst themselves, the hush of their voices stopping when they noticed the newcomer. Their dresses spoke of their ranks, perhaps princesses or other nobles. Frankly, despite his post, the doctor knew little of the members of the royal family. Still, he offered them a low bow, removing his cap and holding it flat against his chest. 

“Is that the renowned Doctor Essex?” came a booming voice from the echoing space behind him. Doctor Essex straightened up, pivoting his place, the heels of his shoes squeaking against the ground. His fingers tenses, bringing up his thumb to crack the knuckles gripping to the bag in his hand, tongue running haphazardly over his lips as he espied the Lord Braddock, wearing his formal bests, shoes barely visible beneath the vast fabric of his trousers. 

“My Lord—” the doctor said politely, bowing yet again. He rose a moment later, the two men crossing towards one another. “I came at quickest convenience, the health of Her Majesty takes precedence over my studies, of course.” There appeared to be no trace of mirth in his voice, a thin smile on his face, eyes wrinkled ever so slightly.

“Of course,” responded the Lord Braddock, returning the same flimsy smile. “I am afraid the Queen’s health is failing rapidly, though—local physicians on the Isle are claiming it is not so severe. They are of the belief she could still rule for another, oh, six, perhaps ten years?” There was no confidence in his tone, but he bowed his head gravely, gesturing towards a stairwell at the far end of the room. He began walking in its direction, and Doctor Essex struggled to keep up, his limbs short and ungainly compared to the muscled figure of Braddock. “Of course, I wanted a second opinion — and only the best would do.”

“My Lord humbles me with his—” 

“Nonsense!” Braddock roared, heavy footfalls creaking the painted wooden stairs. “You have been touted as amongst the greatest medical minds of our time, Doctor. My bias may be showing, just because you helped deliver myself and darling Elizabeth into this world, however my judgement is sound. None other will be trusted to look after the Defender of the Faith.”

Lord Braddock led the Doctor through a series of close corners and short hallways, past a variety of closed, clearly locked, doorways. Armed guards stood at their posts at each vertex, a steely reminder of the sheer manpower arming the small Isle. He had nearly lost himself in his thoughts — as he was wont to do as of late, too easily distracted by the potential of progress — when they arrived at the door they were headed towards. “Her Majesty is just inside. Last I had checked on her, she was soundly asleep. Lady Elizabeth is seeing to her at present.”

He cracked open the door, giving them both access to the Queen’s private chambers. Despite the pomp and circumstance about, the room itself was rather stiffly adorned. The curtains had been drawn, and the candles at the bedside extinguished to allow Victoria her peace. Her bed, however, was vast, even for a woman her size, nearly three times larger than necessary. Two twin curtains hung from the canopy, draping gracefully along the ground. 

At their entrance, the attention of Elizabeth Braddock had been caught. How unlike her twin brother she looked — of dark hair and a fair complexion, compared to Lord Brian and his golden mane and golden skin. Had he not been present for the birth, and every subsequent screening, he would have doubted her true parentage. “It is good to see you, Doctor Essex,” she said, voice quiet. Her hand carefully let go of that of the Queen, who stirred delicately in her slumber. “Though I wish it were under more hospitable circumstance.”

“My lady,” the Doctor responded, allowing for another bow, his knees cracking slightly as he bent them. “Would you see to it that one of the staff lights a small fire?” he asked, stepping further into the room, his bag placed on one of the chairs to the side. “If her health is in question, then even the slightest of drafts could prove problematic. My thanks.” 

Without protest, Elizabeth rose from her seat, quietly taking her leave from the room. Doctor Essex began removing his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, finally removing his scarf. His vest was wrinkled form the long hours of travel he had taken to arrive, and he was quite certain he reeked of fish and the sea, but he made no comment, nor did Lord Braddock. “You are free to leave, my Lord. In fact, it would be disconcerting should you stay. I trust the local physicians are correct, but I would not want to take unnecessary risks. Should there be an airborne contagion…”

“Of course,” Brian said, quick to voice his displeasure at being in the room. He was many things, the Lord Lionheart, but he balked at the idea of being so close to the ill — a trait he had carried from his youth. Only his darling sister could convince him otherwise. “I am sure you appreciate the protocol — but it is required we place a guard inside with you, in case of an unforeseen attack—” 

“Yes, yes,” the doctor said, waving his hand away, growing a touch impatient. “Now, please, my Lord. At your discretion, I would like to examine her symptoms promptly, so as to not waste valuable time.”

Without another word, he heard Lord Braddock’s footsteps retreating, then the gentle push of the door closing shut. Doctor Essex turned his head over his shoulder, eying the guard that had taken up residence, back stiff and straight, pressed up against the door. “You would be wise to not allow anybody in during my visit,” he said, voice much darker in tone now, without the need for noble pleasantries. As expected, the man said nothing in response, remaining vigilant at his post.

Once again lifting his bag from the chair, the Doctor crossed the room, circling around the bed to take what had been Elizabeth’s place at the Queen’s side. Again the woman stirred peacefully. “Eighty-one years,” the man clucked quietly, pulling the chair closer and seating himself upon it. “You truly are a marvel, your Majesty.” 

It took a moment, but a response came in a frail tone. “You are not the physician I had sent for.”

“No,” he replied, softening his voice. “Lord Braddock insisted I see you.”

Her Majesty smiled, barely visible amongst the sagging flesh tacked on her cheeks, but he noticed. “Lord Braddock was always something of a fool, would you agree?”

“I wish not to speak ill of my Lord.”

Silence took hold of the room once more, Doctor Essex moving not a muscle as he awaited Victoria’s response. “You have been thinking rather ill of him since you stepped foot into my home, Doctor.” Essex narrowed his eyes. The Queen allowed the slightest of chuckles to escape her lips. “I am not afraid of you, I shall have you know. I am Queen of this empire. I have faced foes greater than you.”

“Yes, but—none have been quiet so close as to be able to end your life, my Queen.” 

“You said so yourself, I am a woman frail. Eighty years is too long for one woman to live,” she said, some resolve in her voice, despite the fatigue. “You should relinquish your grip on my guard’s mind so as to not kill him. Your methods are rather sloppy.”

Doctor Essex’s gaze rose to the guard, whose eyes had widened significantly, but was frozen in place, hovering some three inches above the ground. With a snarl, the good doctor allowed him to slump down, eyes closing instantly. “He should wake in a few hours, with false recollection of what is about to happen.”

“The Lord has already opened the gates of Heaven for me,” she hummed, her body relaxing, he noted, as her palms upturned, head tilting back ever so slightly. “I have probed your mind, hoping to uncover what it is you desire to obtain from doing this. There is no personal gain to be had for you.”

“That is where you are quite mistaken,” Essex retorted, voice heavy. “My plans are already set in motion — my divine right is close to unfolding. You, your majesty, are but the last piece in the puzzle to be fitted. But a lamb for the slaughter.”

“My death shall be avenged,” she breathed, curling her fingers up into a loose fist. 

“I have taken every precaution. None shall know of my involvement. None would suspect the physician to Lord Brian Braddock himself.”

The old woman smiled again, more pronounced this time, her cheeks resisting the push. A laugh once again fell forth, reminiscent of the times she had done so when younger — when there had been more to life than the humdrum routine of ruling. Her husband. Her children. Her legacy. “Do not put your faith in subtlety, Doctor Essex. No plan is without flaws.”

“ _My_ plans are without flaws,” he responded sharply. The woman’s body tensed further, bones going rigid, blood freezing in her veins, unable to move. 

“The future you are envisioning is a false one, Doctor,” her Majesty managed, voice strained, short of breath, struggling to get the words out properly from failing body. “When I am gone, another will take my place, and another, and another — there is no end to succession. The throne will stand, proud and true, for generations to come.”

“My dear, dear Queen,” he tutted, and all at once the room grew still once more. The body went limp, sinking somewhat into the sheets and the mattress, eyes already closed. The heart stopped pumping blood through the system, the lungs stopped taking in oxygen for breath. In that moment, everything failed. The dreams and hopes of a nation, so quickly, crumbled apart. “You should have been smart enough to see that it is not a republic I am looking to create, no…” He leaned forward, placing a hand on the woman’s cold, wrinkled forehead, feeling for temperature changes. “For I have something in mind that is far more… _sinister.”_


	2. Illuminati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gathering of the greatest minds in the entire United Kingdom. Lords Reed Richards, Stephen Strange, and Charles Xavier meet with business tycoon and visionary Anthony Stark and the reclusive King of Atlantis, Namor. Together, they comprise the Illuminati, known also as the Queen's Guard, a secretive, powerful counsel to the royal family. This meeting, however, has terrible consequences for the group: with the death of their monarch, how stable is their footing entering the new century?

♕

**25** **th** **JANUARY, 1901**  
BATH ABBEY, SOMERSET, UNITED KINGDOM

♕

The antechamber was larger than it should have been. Stone walls, layer upon layer laid by masons some three centuries prior, grey, desolate, barren. Walls were entirely sparse of decoration, leaving just the brick and mortar to look at. A table ran down the very centre of the room, so large was it that it left only room for the two rows of chairs along its ends, as well as two narrow passages down the length of the room. It could seat fifty-two, and as such fifty identical chairs had been made, evenly spaced along it, with the two end caps being of similar, yet altogether different, designs. They were made of an ancient mahogany, dark and rich and supple in colour. Though they had been crafted soon after the completion of the room — itself merely an offshoot of a primary hall in the expansive parish church — they did not seem as worn as they should have been.

Only one of the showpiece chairs had was occupied and, indeed, only a small smattering of the regular chairs had any bodies in them. Five men sat huddled to one side of the room, the one furthest from the entranceway, marred by shadows and darkness. The only illumination came from two lit torches, suspended several feet in the air on the walls behind them — and from the minds present in the meeting.

“Lord Strange—”

“A pleasure as always, Lord Richards.”

“You people and your baronies.” The already terse room went quiet, four heads turning slowly towards the fifth. “I’m sorry—do I know you?” 

“I’m afraid we have not yet had the _pleasure_ of meeting.”

“Anthony Stark. Of Stark Industries,” the man replied, some arrogance in his voice, a semblance of pride, but nothing compared to that of the man speaking with him. A smile tugged at his lips. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me? We displayed a great marvel at the world’s fair in Paris last year.”

The other man, his hair cut shorter than Stark’s, his jawline firm, his ears pressed back against his face and ever so slightly pointed, frowned. “I have not.” His lips pursed, contempt clear on his face. 

“Anthony Stark,” spoke the man in the seat at the end, the one known as Lord Richards, “it is my honour to introduce you to His Majesty King Namor. Of Atlantis.” 

Stark gave Richards a sidelong glance, brows furrowing. A smile was playing on his lips, but never fully realized itself. “Atlantis?” he asked with skepticism. “Next you’ll be expecting me to believe that Avalon’s real, too.” The men gave no reply, though Lord Strange did give the faintest of chuckles.

“It is not an attempt at humour, Mister Stark,” Richards continued, voice even, almost disconnected from the situation entirely. “You’ve already met most of our group: Lord Stephen Strange. Lord Charles Xavier. Myself. However, King Namor only graces us with his presence when the need is… _dire_.” 

“If he’s a King, why’s he sitting to _your_ left?”

Reed Richards made no attempt to answer the question, merely letting out the faintest of sighs and leaning back in his chair. “Obviously,” he continued, still level in tone, “the fact that he is here today should say something to the severity of the situation. Queen Victoria is dead.” 

There was silence, then, borne out of respect and regret than genuine surprise. Each of the men knew of her passing, and each had suspected it was the reason for their gathering. After a full minute allowed to show their submission, Richrds began speaking again. “Her son, Edward, has already ascended to the throne, though his coronation will likely be held in the summer, after arrangements can be made and festivities be planned.”

“You would ask us to meet with him? As counsel?” the final member of the troupe spoke, the voice of Charles Xavier. His was akin to gravel and stone scraping on the ground, the oldest member of the group, though debatable if he were the wisest.

“His Majesty has always been… _opposed_ to our business with the Queen. He believes we imposed a negative influence upon his mother,” Reed continued, glancing around at the faces surrounding him. “King Edward resents her abdication of monarchal rule, and pins the blame directly upon us for convincing her that neutrality and a steady hand was the proper path for her to take.” His eyes lingered on Namor longer than on the others, eyes narrowing.

“So there’s not a chance he’d care to meet with us,” Stark interjected, nodding slightly.

“Quite,” Richards murmured in agreement, not overtly reacting to the outburst. “In fact, I believe the exact opposite. I suspect he would seek to dismantle our numbers. He would see to an end of the Illuminati.”

Once again silence fell, this one far more palpable than the others. A sense of uneasiness wore over the room as each of the five men allowed the words to sink in. “The ceremony—?” Lord Strange began, the one to shatter the walls of glass sealing them.

“Will need to be completed, most certainly,” Reed concluded. “Nonetheless, our duty is to the monarch, and our loyalties lie always with the crown, however misguided his decision may be. I would like to call this meeting to order. Are there objections?” No man spoke. “Lord Strange, if you would.”

The man nodded, the slivers of grey in his hair and in his beard more pronounced as he stood and the light cast itself upon him, his face illuminating though heavily shadowed. His hands rose, and his head tilted back. Though his lips were moving, the words he was chanting were impossible to discern amongst the quiet, only the sound of breathing. 

On the opposing side of the room, the door slammed shut, the sound of wood closing against metal ringing through the chamber. In pairs, starting from the set furthest away, the torches flickered out, submerging the room into total blackness. It remained as such for a few seconds, but before any eyes could adjust to the din, a small white light began to glow upon the table, far from where any of the men were sitting, but the light began to spread in a more intricate shape, the silhouette becoming more clear on the ceiling. It formed into a perfect circle, branching off in eight directions inwardly, lines interconnecting to form a perfectly fitted square. 

“ _Acta deos nunquam mortalia fallunt,_ ” spoke Reed Richards finally, and as the words left his tongue, the room seemed to return to life. The door remained shut, however the torches relit themselves, and the centrepiece of the table disappeared as Lord Strange pressed himself back down into his seat. 

“Ad honorem,” Namor spoke, bowing his head.

“Ad libitum,” said Anthony Stark. 

“Ad hominem,” mumbled Xavier. 

“Ad absurdum,” said Strange.

“Ad infinitum,” concluded Richards. 

For what felt like the thousandth time, the silence overtook the group, though it was a fleeting one. “We are without two of our members on this occasion — the thirty-sixth meeting of the Queen’s Guard, the Illuminati. I, Lord Reed Richards, present the first motion: I formally request to cease all official and unofficial Illuminati activities following the coronation of His Majesty King Edward the seventh. Our duties have been performed to their fullest potential, and we have reached a point in our futures that we will no longer be required. Four affirmative votes are required for the motion to pass. King Namor?”

“I vote in favour.”

“Lord Xavier?”

“In favour.”

“Stark.”

“Against.”

“Lord Strange, the determining vote is yours.”

“I am in favour of ceasing all Illuminati functions.”

Another moment of silence. “The motion carries, a vote of four-to-one, two votes abstained,” Reed said, the first hint of humanity in his voice carried as he let out a soft sigh. “Somebody please be certain to inform the others. Is there a second order of business?”

None responded, though Richards gave a longer timespan before concluding his thought. “Then I hereby—” 

“No, wait,” Stark said, cutting off Lord Richards. “I’ve been in contact with Lord Brian Braddock. He was with her Majesty in the days leading up to her untimely death. He said something to me that struck my interest, it’s been eating me from the insides ever since.” Namor gave the businessman a look of mild contempt, a stiff nod of the head urging him to continue on. “He said that the doctors had prescribed her to be in good health. Incredibly good health. You lot know as well as I do—” He glanced around the group, eyes settling on Charles Xavier. “—Her Majesty was in prime condition, even for a woman of her age. She should have been fine.”

“You know how Braddock is, Stark,” Xavier said. “A creature of pure emotion. I suspect he was merely projecting himself, perhaps guilt that it was he in her company when she passed.”

“It was more than that,” Stark responded, pushing back in his chair. “I would like to be given lead on a task to investigate Her Majesty’s death.” 

Lord Richard thinned his mouth into a fine line, leaning forward in his seat. “Stark, the palace’s reports are explicitly stating she passed of natural causes. Lord Braddock’s own physician treated her: Nathaniel Essex. He is top of his field.”

“His _field_ is more Charles Darwin than it is Herman Boerhaave. Hardly a specialist in physiology,” he argued, standing his ground. “I have on my payroll one of the sharpest minds in all of the United Kingdom. I would go so far as to boast his skills as being top in the entire world.” He looked round the room, sure to make eye contact with each of his peers. “I don’t usually say it, but _please_. I have a gut feeling about this. My hunches are never wrong. I’m an entrepreneur.” 

“You inherited a failing company from a deadbeat father,” Namor murmured.

“I thought you said you hadn’t heard of me.”

“I lied.”

Anthony Stark smiled. “I present the motion to allow for the investigation of Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s untimely death, an undertaking led by myself, Anthony Stark.”

“Addendum,” Richard said, waving his hand. “Should the motion carry, there should be a provision stating that all activities will be ceased alongside the disillusion of the organization.”

“But Strange’s cere—” 

“Is for the good of the whole of the Kingdom.”

“So is this,” Stark retorted sharply. Richards made no move to reply, forcing him to continue his motion. “I motion to allow for the investigation of Her Majesty the Queen’s death, in a team led by myself, Anthony Stark—to be concluded upon the coronation of King Edward. Whenever that should be.” He paused. “Four votes needed to pass. Lord Strange?”

“…I vote in favour of the expedition,” the greying man said after a moment’s pause.

“Lord Xavier?”

The bald man nodded slightly. “In favour.”

Anthony Stark buckled himself in, glancing to Reed Richards. “Lord Richards?”

“Against — the case is not a complex one, Stark. You shouldn’t be encouraged to waste your time on such frivolities.”

Ignoring him, Stark turned to the one man standing between him and his goals. “King Namor?”

The King of Atlantis had the queerest of smiles on his face, sitting tall in his chair, acting as if it were his throne beneath the sea. “This is a lost cause, Stark,” he said, and Anthony narrowed his eyes, expecting the death knell — it would have been easier had T’Challa or The Black Bolt been able to arrive in time, they would have heard his cause and judged his intentions well. “But I would like to see you attempt to get one foot into the house of lords and kings.” He smirked. “I vote in favour.”

Reed Richards seemed perturbed, though it was difficult to judge fully, the man always seemed just the slightest bit ticked off, though it was usually coupled with a general sense of aloofness, but now he seemed fully in place. “The motion carries. Stark, you have permission to investigate.” His tone was not antagonistic, though Stark could see clear as day he took issue with the precedence at stake here. The Illuminati had been his brainchild, the end result of countless days and weeks and months of work, and now he was forced to see it dissolve before him. 

And here was Anthony Stark — not a noble, not a Lord, just a humble businessman, matched with the sharpest minds in the United Kingdom, having just usurped the throne from _the_ smartest man in England. 

When no further issues were raised, the meeting was disbanded. No one immediately stood up, spending a goodly few minutes discussing other things. Frivolous things. Reed Richards mentioned he believed his wife to be pregnant with their first child. Xavier spoke of the successes of the school he had opened outside of London. 

Stark, though, took no place in the conversation, and was the first to excuse himself. He was slow to rise to his feet, pushing himself off of the old chair and balancing himself on the table. “Good evening, gentlemen. My lords, your highness.” He bowed low as he could before starting to walk away.

The sound of steel clanking against stone echoed through the room as he walked away, the stub of his foot barely visible beneath the pleat of his trousers. However, if looking intently enough, one would be able to discern no foot at all, instead a makeshift metallic replacement, leading from his foot, drawn up his leg, and covering a better portion of his chest. 

His employees called him the Metallic Monster, known for his smug attitude, tendency to look down upon his inferiors, and quick temper. Most, though, in the higher circles, his contemporaries, called him the Man of Iron. Part human, part something else entirely. He was a work of technology unlike anything anybody had ever seen before.

But perhaps the most surprising thing about Anthony Stark was how much he loved the monarchy. And he would stop at nothing to see it flourish.


	3. Particles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having arrived home from the Illuminati's council in Bath, Anthony Stark returns to work at his namesake company to yet another meeting. This time, though, the futurist must work to convince his friend and employee Doctor Henry Pym, a biochemist who has recently uncovered a new, mutable subatomic particle, to join his cause in uncovering the truth behind Queen Victoria's death.

♕

**2** **nd** **FEBRUARY, 1901**  
STARK INDUSTRIES, LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

♕

In its tenure, Stark Industries had undergone significant transformations, translocations, remodelling, restructuring, rebranding, and rebooting. Founded some thirty years prior by Howard Stark, the company was quick to differentiate itself from its contemporaries. Not through particular financial successes — in its first twenty years, never once did a product fully go to market — but through innovation. 

It was a company of ideas, rather than results, and for that reason it had long since become a hotbed of creative minds mixed with business acumen and, once it became clear just how valuable the ideas the company produced were, more focus was placed on the execution of these thoughts. Almost overnight, the Stark family became the richest private citizens of Great Britain. A happy ending to the story would state that, in spite of money beyond his wildest dreams, young Anthony Stark would not be corrupted by the greed of it, or thrown astray by the allure of power, but he did not have a happy ending in the traditional sense.

He relished as one of the _nouveau riche_. Money was, above all, a tool to be used to shape your life, your future. For him, it meant affording pricier clothing, eating the finest, freshest of foods, generally flaunting his wealth. Calling him spoilt and selfish would be an appropriate term to use, but he was humanized by his vision. 

Stark Industries was, despite its small, outwardly appearance, one of Britain’s top employers of scientific and medical minds in the world. He funded their research, developed their prototypes, and if the 1900 Paris World’s Fair was any indication, they were truly beginning to shape not just his own future, but the future of the entire world.

He was a visionary. He was a socialite. Above all, he was a futurist. 

Stepping into the front door of Stark Industries’ primary location, settled off the high street of London, its silhouette larger than any others on the main roads, Anthony Stark took in a large breath of air — it smelled of progress. “Welcome back, Mister Stark.” Almost immediately, a small red-haired woman approached him, holding close to her chest a binder and a notepad, pen tucked behind her ear. “I trust your meeting in Somerset went well?”

“Of course it did, Miss Potts,” he said, offering her a smile. “And I hope things all went smoothly here while I was away?”

“There were a few technical issues,” she admitted, and together they began traversing the corridor, eyes forward. “But I managed to sort them out before it jeopardized the production stream.”

He glanced over at her quickly. “What do you mean by ‘technical issues’, Miss Potts?”

She inhaled sharply, turning a corner towards his office. “The entire thing broke down. Twice.” Smiling, she let out a weak laugh. “I had [Forge] repair it both occasions — each time it was something different, so I also had him do a full once-over.”

“I inspected the machine myself,” Stark muttered as he sank into his desk chair. “It was my own design, my own blueprints. I’m the best of the best.”

“Yes, well,” she said, setting down the binder before him, taking a small step back. “He’s better than the best. You really should stop resenting him so much—you’re lucky to have hired him before Advanced Idea Mechanics had the opportunity to.”

Stark pursed his lips to her, but dropped the argument then entirely. “Did you manage to secure a meeting with Doctor Pym?”

“As soon as I received the telegram, sir. He should be here in half an hour,” she responded, smiling lightly. “Do you need me to get you anything? Food? Something to drink?”

“No thank you, Miss Potts,” he said, waving her away. “Just send Pym in as soon as he arrives, even if it’s early. He’s always early.”

Passing a half hour was easier said than done, but Anthony Stark managed admirably. It helped that he had several newspapers to catch up on — dailies and weeklies — but even that only occupied him for so long. By then end of his wait, he had taken to occupying himself by staring at the window, playing a mental game of chess against himself. He won, of course.

The knock at the door startled him. “Three minutes early,” he pointed out, getting up to turn his chair around. “Come in, Henry.” 

He was a wire of a man, Henry Pym, the sort of frame that was too gangly for its own good. Scrawny and skinny, with long arms and legs that hung at his sides. There was the slightest of hunches in his backs, but he’d been taking corrective measures to fix his posture. It wasn’t his body that mattered, though — it was his brain. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stark.”

“And to you, my friend. Please, take a seat. We have many things to discuss.”

Doing as he was told, he ambled forward to take the chair on the opposite side of the man’s desk. “Your trip was well? Business accomplished?”

“I never travel for business, Henry,” Stark responded, smiling. “Only pleasure. And I was pleasured with the opportunity to lead a team for something very near and dear to my heart.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. “And you’re going to ask me to join you on this venture, I suppose?”

“You’re a smart man, Doctor.”

“I humbly refuse, but thank you, sir.”

Anthony sighed, standing up slowly. There was a slight chink of metal as he did so, causing Henry to wince, but he did his best to ignore the horrific sound. Stark crossed the room, where a bottle of bourbon and a tray of small glasses awaited them. He opened the bottle, pouring two fingers full in two of the cups, bringing them back. “You haven’t even heard the opportunity yet. For all you know, it could be a good one.”

“In my time here, Tony, I’ve hardly had a _good_ opportunity come straight from your mouth.”

It made Tony laugh, which seemed to relieve Henry. “What about the Pym Particles? Could you ever have made your discovery if not for this company? If not for my funding you? Sub-atomic particles that exist between various states of matter—why, Henry Pym, you are a darling of modern science and magic alike.”

“Magic goes beyond my general expertise, sir,” he said, reverting to the more professional tone shared between the two friends during working hours. “So that’s doubly a ‘no’ if whatever you’re suggesting involves it.”

“No magic, I promise,” he protested, offering the glasses out to clink together. “To your health.”

“And yours,” Henry responded, taking a small swig, wincing at the strength of the cask. “Let me hear your proposal.”

Stark drew out the moment as long as he could, a thin smirk on his face. He had no long-winded explanation, though he could come up with one on the fly if he so wanted to. It was easier to just make the case as bare-boned as possible. If experience spoke to anything, Henry Pym would be an easy sell to his task. “I want you to autopsy the Queen.”

He looked about to laugh, but didn’t as he saw just how serious Tony’s face was. His head tilted to the side, squinting as he thought. “How exactly do you intend to autopsy the Queen?”

Tony’s response was to look incredulous. “By asking?” he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

It wasn’t.

“What sort of connections do you have to the royal family? Have you ever even been to a gala? You aren’t exactly the sort—” 

“I have connections, Hank. _Good_ connections. The kind that can get me access to the Queen’s medical history with a snap of my fingers.” He shook his head. “I _think_ I can autopsy the Queen, but I _know_ you can.”

“I’m a biochemist.”

“You’re a genius.”

“So are you. So by your logic, you should _know_ you can do it.”

Tony smiled. “You’re getting funnier in your old age.”

“And you’re getting more ludicrous by the second, Tony,” Hank argued, sighing. He finished off the bourbon in one fell swoop, pushing his chair back. “What could you possibly hope to accomplish by doing this?” He rose to his feet, fully expecting that to be the end of the conversation and, for a few seconds, Tony humoured him. He allowed Henry to compose himself and turn away, speaking only right as he reached the door.

“The Queen was a mutant. Genetically speaking.” His voice was low, as if worried somebody would be listening in. It was loud enough for Henry to hear, though, and it gave him pause, hand grazing above the door handle. He turned around, expecting to get more information. “She was a telepath. A damned powerful one at that. Probably top three, top four in the world.”

“How could you possibly—?”

“Who did you think I was visiting in Bath? My grandparents? _(Well, yes, I did visit them, too, but…)_ ” Tony cleared his throat. “I was meeting with them again.” 

“Your little boy’s club? Lord Strange, and Reed Richards, and—” 

“Lord Charles Xavier. Top telepath in the world. Known mutant. Member of the Illuminati. Along with me.”

“You make it sound like a cult.”

Tony shrugged. “It’s sort of like a cult. But, that’s not what we’re discussing, here. Henry, I need somebody I trust to perform an autopsy on the Queen, because I have reason to believe that there was some foul play involved. Lord Braddock said that all the royal physicians attested to a clean bill of health, only for her to die in her sleep that night. It doesn’t add up.”

There was a moment of silence, and Hank sighed reluctantly. “It rarely does add up, sir.”

“Will you do it? For me?”

He hesitated to answer right away, though both men knew what the eventual response would be. “Of course,” he relented, shaking his head stiffly. “But I still don’t see how you’ll be able to be granted any sort of audience in front of the royal family, much less the dead Queen.”

“You would be surprised how far my influence spreads,” he answered, sounding more coy and mysterious than he intended, but either way Henry did not press the issue. “I’ve got friends from Cardiff, to Paris, and all through the colonies. Strings everywhere. I pull one, and everything shifts. Just a little.” He smirked, bowing his head, and taking a small drink of the bourbon. “But every time I do, it inches me closer and closer to my goals. So all I _really_ need to do is pull the right string, at the right time, and hope for the best. Then, and only then, will all the pieces fall into place.”

Henry didn’t respond, realizing rather quickly that his contribution to the conversation had run fully dry. He had nothing to add, at least nothing that Tony didn’t already know. It was his turn to absorb the information being told to him, one of the few people in the world privy to such things. He knew better than to argue at this stage. He’d agreed to the plan, no matter how crack pot it might have been, and he’d need to live with that decision. Or back out. But Tony always found a way to draw him back in.

“Don’t worry about the details, Doctor Pym. By the end of tomorrow, everything should be coordinated. I will have a letter sent home to you to inform you of then when and the where and the how and the why and the what. For now, though, just focus on your usual work.” He smiled. “I am very excited to read your research in the journals. What the Pym Particle means for modern invention…” 

“It won’t work,” Henry countered quietly, shrugging. “I’ve run the numbers on the difference engines, something it wrong, and I’m not quite sure where the error is, but it isn’t yet ready for human testing.”

Anthony Stark’s smile grew all the wider. “We never say never in this building, Henry. Ever.”


	4. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholas Fury, leader of the elite task force S.H.I.E.L.D., Sovereign Heroes in Example, Loyalty, and Distiction, is reunited with his two subordinate officers as they return from the Isle of Wight in the Queen's company. They meet with Anthony Stark and Doctor Henry Pym, who have startling news regarding the nature of Victoria's death. A team begins to be formed as a coalition is made between the two parties, all determined to uncover the truth behind what happened.

♕

**5** **th** **FEBRUARY, 1901**  
BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

♕

There was a certain sense of tedium that came from working amongst the palace guard in Buckingham. In fact, in his experience, too much romance had been varnished over ‘official’-type positions: policeman, soldier, palace guard. They were advertised to young boys as fast-paced, exciting professions, the sort of occupation where a boy would become a man.

In actuality, there was nothing more humdrum. Most of his days were spent standing perfectly still, or patrolling corridors that had seen neither hide nor hair of another living person in decades. That was part of the charm of having an aging royal family. After the death of her husband, Queen Victoria had taken to occupying just one or two of the rooms at her disposal. Her son, Edward, during his visits tended to stick close to his dear mother, comforting and nursing her. Even his children, when they were younger and rambunctious, were incredibly well behaved and did not make much of a habit terrorizing the household guard. 

At least when he was a soldier, there had been a sense of adventure at the notion of being sent to war. When he first started as a trainee, they had told him to expect constant attempts on the Queen’s life. Republicanism was at its peak, then, before her Majesty had quelled most talk of rebellion. Her position had been abdicated to that as nothing more than a glorified figurehead, much to the chagrin of her children and extended family. With the populace content, it meant that Nicholas Fury’s life had become a routine, almost ten years of progression through the ranks, becoming the chief member of her personal guard, S.H.I.E.L.D.: _Sovereign Heroes In Example, Loyalty, and Distinction_ , a glorified, modernized version of the Roman’s Praetorian Guard. 

He and his fellows were charged with one primary purpose: protecting the Queen. In their duties, they had succeeded for over fifty years, a varying crew of all ages, ranks, nationalities, and creeds. A secretive, underground network of experts in all fields: espionage, combat training, weaponry, transport, engineering, and strategy. Fury was a smart enough man to know he was just one cog in the overall mechanics of the system, but he had been made the commander for a reason. The only man who knew every secret, every memorandum, every motive. 

He had been in the bath when the knock at his door had informed him of the Queen’s passing on the Isle of Wight. It would be remiss of him to deny just how angry he had been to hear it, that he hadn’t been at her side when it happened. Few were privy to the Queen’s personal thoughts, but over the years the two had developed a rather close bond — as close as one could get to the longest reigning monarch. Instead, he’d dispatched his numbers two and three to the island, giving him some time for a vacation. A long overdue vacation. 

And then she’d died. Suddenly, they said, of natural causes. “Bollocks,” he’d immediately dismissed it, ordering both of his men men as soon as readily possible. By that, he’d meant the next day. He had waited nearly a week for their hasty return. Even the Queen’s corpse had returned sooner than they had. 

“It’s about bloody time,” he snapped, the first thing he’d said to either of them in over a month. “I want both of your reports. Now.”

“There is _nothing_ to report, sir.”

Nick Fury shot Phillip Coulson the most stern look he could muster. The man was just about half his age, but had proven to be an effective soldier. “You mean to tell me our perfectly healthy Queen, God rest her soul, just upped and died like that?”

“I was in the room, sir,” Coulson protested quietly.

“You _saw_ her die?”

“… I’d fallen asleep on my watch. When I awoke in the morning, she was dead. I declared it.”

Fury’s hand shot down harshly on the table between them, causing the third member of their party to jump. “Miss Hill? What was your role?”

Maria Hill was the youngest of the trio, just shy of twenty-one. When Fury had opted to elect her as one of his lieutenants, there had been some outcry from the royal family — not because of her sex, but because of her age and inexperience. Yet, in the seven years they’d known one another, Hill had not once let him down. Until now.

“I went in the company of the Braddock family. I stayed close to Elizabeth much of the time. My duties were—”

“Don’t think to tell me what your duties were. I gave them.” The annoyance was clear, weighing heavily on his tone. “Coulson, how long have I known you?”

“Eleven years, sir. Maybe twelve.”

“Twelve years come March,” he confirmed, nodding his head. “And in those twelve years, how many times have you _fallen asleep_ on the job?”

There was hesitation before answering, fully expecting some sort of reprimand. “Never, sir.”

“Never, exactly.” It wasn’t exactly the extent of anger Coulson expected, shooting a cursory glance over to Hill. “So why would you fall asleep this time?”

Here it came. He couldn’t even deny it. “I was tired, sir.”

“No, agent, you weren’t.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. His brow quirked, and his head tilted slightly to the side, and he struggled against himself to figure out what to say. Maria Hill found the words for him. “Are you suggesting we’ve been compromised?”

Nick Fury glanced between his two top agents, the two people — the only two people — he trusted implicitly in his life. “No, Miss Hill,” he said, shaking his head slowly, gravely, bowing it down. “I’m not _suggesting_ it.”

Silence fell. A thick, uncomfortable one, consisting of the three looking at one another for brief moments before the discomfort took over and they were forced to look away. Confusion knitted at their brows, nobody wanting to ask the obvious questions, knowing full well that nobody would have the answers they needed in order to satisfy the curiosity. 

It persisted nearly a minute and a half before being interrupted by the sudden opening of the door. Coulson and Hill, not expecting company. Before the light of the hallway could even permeate the room, Hill had pulled two holstered Wesson’s from somewhere, concealed perfectly on her person in the folds of her dress. 

“Stand down, Hill,” Fury commanded as the silhouettes turned into actual faces, two men stepped into the room. Once walked with a clear purpose, knowing full well he was expected to be in there. The other seemed less so, trailing behind a few steps. “We were expecting guests.” He stood up, matching his colleagues, but crossed around the table to shake the first man’s hand. “Mister Anthony Stark. Doctor Henry Pym. I’m hoping for good news, here, it’s been a bloody long day.” 

Coulson and Hill looked at one another, waiting as the group reassembled around the table. Most of their focus had been stolen by Stark — a man they both knew by reputation and recognition, though not personally. The Doctor was a complete enigma to the both of them, though admittedly he did not give off a demeanour of a genuine threat. He did not seem nervous, not exactly, but there was a hesitance compared to Stark’s bravado. He seemed the more mild-mannered of the two, the sort of gentleman you’d prefer at a dinner party.

“Speak to me, Stark,” Fury said.

It became immediately clear the businessman was also a showman. He clapped his hands together, arching his back out in the form of a stretch, looking between the members of the party. “Good news and bad news. Which would you prefer to hear first, mon commandant?” 

“Bad.”

“The Queen’s dead.”

“Sod off, Stark.”

“That’s the bad news,” he complied, nodding his head once with a flourish. “Good news is Doctor Pym here’s got a set of lungs on him and he’ll be the one walking you through the procedure.”

The focus shifted almost uncomfortably towards Henry Pym. He looked around, clearly not happy being the centre of attention. His mouth opened and shut three times, collecting his thoughts, trying to assert himself after the bumbling lead-in from the Man of Iron. “It was a relatively simple procedure,” he started off with. “The autopsy, that is. Standard stuff. I wasn’t expecting anything to be problematic. The Palace’s physicians had already conducted one, and said it was natural causes that had done it. Nothing stuck out to them as being particularly troublesome.”

Coulson glanced over to Fury. “Care to fill us in?”

“Let the bloke finish.”

Pym cleared his throat. “The trouble was, there was _nothing_ wrong. Nothing at all. And that’s what worried me. So I dug a little deeper. I—” 

“It was incredibly neat, what he did. See, Doctor Pym’s discovered a new particle, we’re calling in the Pym Particle for now, until the patent goes through for ‘Stark-ticle’. I’m digressing, it’s an incredibly unstable particle, capable of growing tenfold and shrinking to a fraction of its size. And he, Doctor Pym, tested it on the—” 

“You _tested_ on the dead monarch?!” Maria Hill cut in, disgust evident in her voice.

“ _Stark!”_ Pym interrupted, sighing. “No—no, I’ve developed a machine. It’s a mix between a camera, with a specialized microscope, a difference engine, and a printing press, it—” He shook his head, growing frustrated. “It’s incredibly difficult to explain but, essentially… the Pym Particles are trapped inside of a camera lens, shrunk to a degree unheard of my modern miscroscopic technology. The camera is used to photograph clusters of cells on the brain, essentially mapping it, and the the difference engine reads the data received, and it creates an image of what was—should—be there.” 

Blank stares all around, with the exception of Anthony Stark who had a childish, wide grin on his face. 

“Anyway,” Pym continued, adrenaline rushing through his body as the thrill of describing his particles for the first time coursed a high in him. “What I saw was—troublesome. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. Her Majesty did not die of natural causes. There was some sort of interruption, or a split, it… It ripped her brain in half.” 

Maria Hill closed her eyes. Nick Fury had a look of concern on his face. “How did they not notice?” he asked, voice authoritative. 

“It wasn’t physically ripped in half. But molecularly. Each cell had been damaged in such a way, that—it didn’t give the appearance of trauma, or blunt injury, but… my readings tell me it was incredibly, incredibly painful.”

“A telepath?” Coulson asked, trying to follow along as best he could.

Stark seemed to takeover then, having been quiet far too long for his liking. “That’s what we’re guessing, at least in these early stages.”

Fury cut in as well. “Which makes it incredibly difficult to trace. And prove. Have you tried contacting Xavier?” 

“That would be my first course of action, with your permission, of course.” Tony could only think of the last time he’d seen Charles Xavier, some ten days prior. He’d been quick to grant him permission to investigate the death in the first place. Had he known something? Considered by many to be the world’s most powerful telepath, there must have been something there. Some insight missed by the average person.

“You’ve got my support, Stark. If this was a targeted attack — how could it not be? — S.H.I.E.L.D.’s future depends on it,” Fury said, leaning back in his chair, analyzing the group before him. “Coulson, I want you covering the King. Top priority is keeping him safe. I’ve got a few men I can spare from my group that might make it more easy on you — mutants. Heavy cover.” He looked over at Hill. “Tony Stark, this is Maria Hill. She’s trained in combat, espionage, eight languages, and she’s going to be your liaison to me in all affairs regarding this investigation.” 

“Sir.”

“And Stark?” Fury said, standing up before anybody could add more to the conversation. “Agent Coulson here was the man on duty in the Queen’s room the night she was killed. Said he fell asleep.” 

Tony looked over at Phillip Coulson, who narrowed his eyes, not about to allow himself to be accused of anything. “Who else was in the house at Osborne House at the time?”

“Myself, Miss Hill, about seven members of house staff, and the Braddocks.” 

“You forgot the doctor,” Maria interjected, glancing over at Coulson, who tilted his head in mild confusion.

“Right, the Braddock’s doctor. I’d forgotten, my mistake.”

Keeping his gaze levelled on Phillip, Tony leaned in on the table. “Now _that’s_ interesting. How well connected to the Braddocks are you, commander?” 

“Maria Hill is a close confidante of Elizabeth, friend of the family. Lord Brian is a member of the organization, albeit in a smaller capacity.” 

Stark nodded to himself. “I’ve got a few moment contacts I need to touch down with before I can do anything serious, but — Miss Hill?” he asked, eying her over, both of their eyes narrowing in mistrust. “If you’re going to be part of my team, I’d like you to speak with Elizabeth and Brian Braddock. Find out what they know. Try to keep a low profile.”

“Sir,” she complied, though there was some skepticism in her voice.

“That’ll be all, then,” Fury said, pushing his chair in to the table. “Doctor Pym, thank you for taking up the S.H.I.E.L.D., welcome to the ranks.” He started around the table, only to stop halfway to the door, turning around to catch the group collecting their thing. “And Stark?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to hear about your boy’s club closing down.”

Tony smirked. “How’d you find out? That’s supposed to be classified information.”

“Nothing’s classified from me,” Fury said, turning around and striding towards the door, opening it to slip through. “And a little birdie told me.”


End file.
